Earlier this month, I wrote a blog post about my mental health crisis and how I was able to pull through with the help of a group of amazing people. It was scary writing such a personal and brutally honest piece, the fear of judgement from my peers was overwhelming. It’s a shame that mental health is still a taboo subject, it affects us all but it seems that only a select few choose to talk about it. 

 

Talking about my mental illness is a sure step towards admitting and accepting who I am. In the famous words of RuPaul: “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?”. It’s wrong to be shamed into silence by the stigma that surrounds mental health as opening up could trigger a breakthrough. Whilst I might still be waiting for my miraculous recovery (unlikely, but we can hope), talking has helped me monumentous amounts. 

 

The feedback from the first post was astoundingly positive; it helped people to understand my situation, what I had been going through, and some even began to open up to me about their own problems. It encouraged my family to talk more openly to me about their struggles and it has brought us closer together over the festive period. Although incredibly cliche, a problem shared really is a problem halved. I can’t stress the importance of talking, even casually, as it can lift a great weight from a persons’ shoulders. I couldn’t have asked for a better response to a post I wrote whilst trying to drown my demons with copious amounts of alcohol. 

 

That post wasn’t the full story, however. There is also a sequel to my tale but I have yet to find out if I get my prized ‘happily ever after’. 

 

After my night spent in the nursing services, I felt as if I had to be happy. I’d had my little blip and as far as procrastination from uni work goes, it was pretty effective. I walked bravely into university the following Monday, smile etched into my face as I tried to engage in social interaction. I acted as if nothing had happened. I have made some of the greatest friends on this course and their musings were effective in distracting me for a short time. 

 

Don’t day drink, kids. This made for an interesting class.

 

 

The second I got back home, and locked my bedroom door, the facade vanished. I reverted to my old ways, the crying was unstoppable and I idealised suicide even more so than I had ever done before. To the outside world I was okay: I was in receipt of help from professionals and external services. In reality, I wanted to be dead. I wanted nothing less. I thought about it all day, every day, and the thoughts haunted me late into the night. I drank and scratched and cut and bruised. I wanted to feel something other than despair. 

 

I tried to immerse myself in coursework, my job, or anything that would distract myself for even a brief period. Shorthand became impossible, I couldn’t keep up with the rest of the class and it just added fuel to the fire of resentment burning deep inside of me. I stopped attending classes mid-week and I don’t think I’ve been to a shorthand session since (sorry). I felt like my education was more important than my emotions, I wanted to be able to show everyone that I was capable of completing the year without any more issues. I was suffering, struggling, but I tried to power through. I wasn’t sleeping, or eating too much, so my self-hatred propelled me through the rest of the week. 

 

I had things to look forward to, that weekend I was meant to be going to a staff social in Canterbury. I adore the people I work with, I was going to be spending the night with my (now ex) girlfriend, and Hospitality socials are always a good laugh. Maybe I just needed to get completely paralytic, surely that would help solve some of my problems? 

 

I packed my bags the Saturday morning, Christmas shirt at the ready so I didn’t have to face the forfeit of drinking an “Adam Bomb” (go to KBar and ask for one, it’s a real treat). I can’t justify what I did next but I proceeded to pack all of my medication, old and new, into my rucksack. I’m unsure how many tablets I had with me, maybe 30 or so? Probably more. At the back of my mind, I was thinking about overdosing that night. I knew the mixture of alcohol and antidepressants could prove to be a fatal combination and I felt like I was ready…

 

I laughed at myself and at my stupidity. I knew I wouldn’t do it, but the having the tablets with me meant that the opportunity was there if I really wanted to take it. 

 

Unfortunately, I didn’t make it to the social. 

 

 

Taken on a social earlier on in the term… Safe to say that I don’t remember half of the night.

 

 

Whilst many use the weekend as a time to recharge from the stressful week, I work both Saturday and Sunday. My routine is very simple: I catch the 9am shuttle bus to Canterbury, dressed in the oh-so-flattering Hospitality attire, and wait around until my shift starts. I work, I clock out, I wait and I commute home again. 

 

The particular Saturday in question felt different, somehow. I felt different. I could feel determination surging through my veins as my eyes shot repeatedly from my bag, which contained the medication, to the A2 whizzing past the window. My fingers were twitching with anticipation, I didn’t feel like I could go to work, it was now or never. 

 

The bus was almost empty. I was sitting close to the back, on my own, and most people were listening to music. My hands shook profusely as I quickly released the tablets from their plastic packaging. 1, 2… 13, 14… I lost count of how many I took but I know it was a lot.

 

Was I expecting something to happen? Fatigue? Sickness? Was I meant to spontaneously combust? I honestly couldn’t tell you what I was expecting. I felt nothing apart from sheer panic, my whole body was trembling as I found myself in a mild state of hysteria. I’ve never felt so anxious in my life, what had I done? What would my friends think? My family? Why did I do it? I had no idea how to answer any of these questions but I knew that I needed to seek medical attention. 

 

I knew an overdose of my medication wouldn’t kill me, but I just wanted to try. It surprised me how quickly it was all over and how easy it was to take that many tablets. It was so easy. 

 

I could do it again.

 

A week after my first encounter with the nurse, I found myself right back in my big white room. Naturally, she was concerned about the fact that I had no idea how much I had taken. My blood pressure and temperature seemed normal but I felt myself becoming increasingly lethargic as the medication kicked in. 

 

 

UniKitty and I found ourselves back right where we started.

 

 

She woke me up every half an hour to check my vital signs but everything appeared okay. I was fine, why was she making such a fuss? I was so confused, so tired, I didn’t care about anything and I just wanted to sleep. We were told it would be two hours until the ambulance arrived but I am certain it was much longer than that. 

 

In A&E I was surrounded by seriously ill people. People were bleeding, injured, and they were all suffering with a range of physical ailments. I felt almost ashamed to be in their presence. I looked perfectly healthy, there was nothing wrong with me really. I wanted to leave so I didn’t waste anyone else’s time but it was getting late and I didn’t know how I would get home. 

 

I was absolutely terrified. I was the only one alone in the department, everyone had at least one other person with them. A couple of patients glanced over at me, with pity, when they saw that I was on my own. I didn’t feel right being there; I wasn’t ill, I was just being stupid. They could all see that I wasn’t physically hurt and this was one of the only times that I have ever felt embarrassed about my mental health. How could I have let it get so bad? 

 

Despite having nine tattoos, I always faint when confronted with an actual needle. Two (I think, the passing out made me even more confused) blood tests and an ECG later, I was transferred to a much quieter observation ward where I was to wait until I was taken to the Support and Signposting Service in Maidstone. 

 

I was parched, famished and desperate for a wee but I refused to move from my numbered seat (I was chair number five). Waves of panic tore through me as I endured seven hours seated in that chair. It was recliner and an awful lot more comfortable than those in A&E so, hey, I shouldn’t really complain.  There are worse places that I could have been seated. 

 

I watched as other patients keeled over in pain, desperately asking for more medication as their condition was monitored late into the night. I had no further tests, I felt like I didn’t belong there. They were more important, an awful lot more ill than I was. I was just a little depressed. 

 

I spoke with a nurse, who assessed my condition, and for the very first time hospital admission was mentioned. I was ill enough to be offered a hospital bed. 

 

Panic. 

 

How would this affect my degree? Christmas was just around the corner, would I be able to go home for it? Would I still have friends? What would my family think? So many questions. 

 

My brain conjured up images of how mental health wards are portrayed within the mainstream media and I cried. I truly felt broken but I didn’t think that hospital admission would be able to put me back together. I felt far from safe, I was a threat to myself and I needed further support, but I didn’t want my mental instability to get in the way of my education. I just wanted to be normal, why was that so difficult?  

 

At 4.20am on the Sunday morning, I arrived at the Support and Signposting Service. I was greeted by two men who welcomed me into a large rectangular room. Recliner chairs were dotted around the outside with a table and four chairs in the centre. There was a TV with two sofas and a number of doors with ominous names like “Quiet Room” and “Interview Room”. There was a small bathroom with a shower and there were stacks of books and magazines that I was welcome to help myself to. To the left was a kitchenette, with cupboards stocked with food, and a small room with glass walls. This is where they sat.

 

I felt uncomfortable as they sat in there with the door open. They said I had free rein of the room, I could do whatever I pleased, but I felt judged. They could hear my every move and they watched every step I took. My stomach was cramping with hunger but I felt embarrassed to fulfil the need to sustain myself. I deeply empathised with zoo animals. I was told that I could talk to them at any time but, at 4.20am, talking wasn’t my main priority. A blanket and pillow were provided for me so I settled into a recliner chair and slept. 

 

I awoke to four new observers (I slept through the shift change) but they were female and a lot more relaxed. I took the opportunity to chat to one of them about what had happened and all of my insecurities dispersed; I completely opened up to this stranger and the feeling of relief was sensational. I felt better than I had done in a long time. She was able to give me some unbiased advice and she seemed like she genuinely cared, and sympathised with me, about my situation. We discussed further support, including trauma therapies, which all sounded so official but I was genuinely interested in turning my life around. I couldn’t live like that anymore and I was determined to make use of the support I was being offered.

 

My issue was that I was embarrassed about my mental health. The societal stigma attached to mental instability was too prominent in the forefront of my mind and this made it difficult for me to talk about it. I was scared that those I love would judge me for being ill. Stigma and mass misinformation surrounding mental health provided an overwhelming obstacle for me, one that I’m still overcoming. 

 

I’m getting better, slowly. I’ve realised that my recovery is going to take time.

 

Maybe I’ll get some serotonin for Christmas. 

 

 

I have made some of the greatest friends on this course, their support means the world to me.

 

 

To help combat the stigma, and support someone with mental health issues, there are a number of things a person can do. There is no manual on how to help someone with a mental illness, care for a person will differ completely on an individual basis. 

 

However, here are three important things that I appreciate my peers doing: 

 

Showing the person respect. Don’t treat them differently just because of their illness. Having people see you as an individual, rather than defining you by your condition, makes the world of difference.

 

Being patient. Healing can take time and recovery from a mental illness can be a lengthy process. Unfortunately miracles are very rare so, please, don’t expect and increased dose/new medication to cure everything. 

 

Encouraging the person to partake in activities, whether this takes the form of a social with a big group or just asking them for coffee at Cafe No.1. Getting them out of the house may only provide a temporary distraction but I guarantee a small gesture such as this could improve their day tenfold.

 

Here are some helpful links for supporting someone with a mental illness: 

 

https://mind.org.uk/information-support/helping-someone-else/

 

https://time-to-change.org.uk/about-mental-health/support-someone

 

https://psycom.net/never-say-to-someone-with-mental-illness/